Heaven is Too High
by Hammerin
Summary: His purpose was destined at the moment of his conception, but despite the supernatural pull to the occult and his life's deeper call, Michael Langdon had many titles prior to the one bestowed upon him by his father. There were those who knew him by his true name: who knew him as family, friend and even as lover.
1. meet michael

The first day of school was, quite literally, Michael's least favorite day of class. Not that he liked school at all, but the first day was worth sitting at home and playing at being sick for a few hours. However, after three years of fake vomiting into plastic bowls only to be well enough to go outside and shoot basketball later that afternoon, his grandmother had realized that Michael's first-day-of-school flu was a farce, and his attendance had been almost spotless ever since. He couldn't put a direct finger as to why that day in late August was supremely worse than the rest, but he was sure it had to do with the expectation to wear new clothes or the ice breakers or all the new students who thought he would be interested in making their acquaintance just because he sat by himself at lunch. Every year, Michael got a bit bolder, but his grandmother, who he usually referred to by her first name, Constance, had begged and pleaded with him to stop bringing so much attention to himself.

 _"Honey,'_ she said, her blonde hair beginning to gray at the roots, a fact that Michael pointed out in all of their arguments. _"You're such a special, special boy. There are people who would love to hurt you. Don't give them a reason."_

He never knew what she meant by people wanting to hurt him, as he had never mentioned to her the times he'd been shoved into lockers or pushed onto the ground or had crumbled pieces of paper shoved down his shirt, he imagined that, like other things, she just knew. Constance always knew when something was going wrong at school or at home, and even when the thoughts in his mind got too loud, she, seemingly, would always appear with a bid to go get ice cream or to take a walk around their neighborhood. It didn't always bring an end to his misery, but it did introduce some peace into his life. She must have known that he was dreading his senior year specifically, as he'd never been a fan of paperwork or schoolwork, and he could see both piling up in his near future. Constance surprised him a week before school started with a black 2004 Mustang which turned his usual heavy, nihilistic persona to a much brighter one over the week. The only thing that would have made senior year worse was the impending doom of being dropped off by his grandmother everyday, thus being that he then had a way to decide when he would come and go, the pressure of high school seemed a lot less heavy. Nonetheless, he still wasn't excited to be back at the two-story building about ten minutes from his home, but the metal key in his hand gave him the one thing he so desperately needed: _control_. The crowd of people in the hallway still surrounded him on all sides and nearly threw him into an anger-induced anxiety attack, but, nonetheless, he was happier than he had been at other times.

Very soon into the day, Michael's first period teacher made him aware that he'd already taken the class that the school had enrolled him in, as the former had been so deep in apathy to realize he was surrounded by primarily juniors. To his chagrin, as were most things, the boy sat in the school's office for around forty-five minutes waiting for the guidance counselor to call him in and fix his schedule. The man was in his mid-forties and overly eager to shake the younger man's hand, as it was a rarity for students to approach the guidance counselor first, even in mandatory situations.

The man took the folded schedule from Michael's hands, looking over the classes before keying in his name and gazing at the information briefly. "Michael, you really excelled on your standardized tests, have you been looking and applying to universities?"

"No,' he responded flatly, looking at the collection of books behind the counselor's head. They were mainly self-help books, a few books on dieting and a few on basic spirituality. _The Guide to Healthy Living and Eating_ , _Finding your Niche_ , _How to Heal your Mind in 10 Days!_

"Do you have plans on going to college?"

Thinking for a second, Michael placed his intertwined fingers beneath his chin as his elbows balanced on his chair's arm rests. "I keep seeing mentions of war and the apocalypse in the news, my expectation is that the world as we know it might be extinct by the time I should be registering for classes. Why waste the energy?"

Staring at the young man for a few seconds, the counselor looked back at the computer, bored. "Have you read the Catcher in the Rye?' — Michael sat in silence, irritated by the man's allusion to the story's protagonist. " _Ah_ … you have,' the man responded with a deep, arrogant chuckle. "What topics interest you?"

"Religion, maybe."

Scrolling on the page, the counselor touched his beard in thought. "I see you've already taken World Religions… what about the classics? Would you be interested in signing up for Latin?"

The conversation became very one-sided, as Michael spoke less and allowed the man to change his schedule a bit to better suit the idea he'd already conjured of him. Michael considered himself many things, and though few would agree, he could argue that he _could_ be amicable and sociable. That sociability usually only arose with those with similar ideologies as him, and as Michael was a fan of all things unpopular and his self-importance made him tolerable at best, he usually resorted to only having small conversations and had the minimal amount of friends. He'd even been slightly interested in making conversation with the guidance counselor, but after the small slight at his character, he hated the man leading to the rest of his consultation being exponentially dry. He wasn't too upset to ask for the copy of _How to Heal your Mind in 10 Days!_ however, and the counselor had willingly handed it over.

By the time his meeting in the office was over, Michael should have been in the lunchroom. Despite being a growing male, he found that his hunger was usually curbed. He wasn't excited to be in the company of a few hundred teenagers in the loud cafeteria either, thus he found himself in the library during lunchtime most often. His connection with books and reading had implemented itself as a child; he'd been home-schooled throughout elementary school, which Michael imagined had not only fostered his terrible social skills, but his obsession with escapism, specifically with books. He was a fan of philosophers and romanticists, but he'd fallen in love with Milton at a young age. Not many sixth graders read _Paradise Lost_ at their leisure (or on any requirement), but Michael had worn the book's binding by the end of middle school and could recite passages from the poem. He wished he could talk about the book with anyone else, but almost no one had read it, and those who did never shared his opinion on the characters. The poem, for Michael, was meant for the reader to sympathize with the devil, but according to all the literary geniuses, or so they thought themselves, that he'd spoken with, the book only gave a realistic, humanistic few of the fallen angels, but never aided in glorifying them. Michael thought of himself as a fallen angel, not that he could put his finger on why or how, but he'd highlighted and underlined so much of the first thirty pages of his copy, that anyone else glancing through its pages would have difficulty reading certain lines. The school lacked a copy of the book, but Michael would suffice with any book focusing on lore or history.

The time, as per usual, got away from him, and soon after he was late for his third period class, and walking in with a backpack that should have already been in his locker. The teacher gave him a small, apathetic smile, handed him a syllabus and told him to sit wherever he liked. Michael trudged through a thin line of desks to the back of the class, where one of the people who he infamously disliked, leaned over to whisper, "Damn, you haven't killed yourself yet?"

Comments of the sort weren't unusual for Michael, but he was glad that that time it'd be an isolated event and not another excuse for a group of kids, if not the entire class, to laugh at him. Not that he didn't look like everyone else or hadn't grown up where everyone else had, but Michael had always been purposely different. He didn't have the basic social skills to determine when things were appropriate to say or when they weren't, and though he could have easily blamed that on his upbringing, he knew he had never done much to assuage his ineptitudes. If he'd sat down with a therapist at any point, they'd probably point out the fact that Michael knew very well what things weren't acceptable to say, he just didn't care about their consequences. What'd he'd said to the guidance counselor was true: he was wholly convinced the world was on a downwards spiral, and the end was near, but, even if he wasn't sure of that affliction, Michael doubted he would be any softer with those around him. He had a tendency to do the things others wouldn't and say the things others refused to, and whether he did it for entertainment or for the small adrenaline rush it granted him, it hadn't made his life or his appeals for friendship, no matter how minor, any easier. As Michael saw it, his inefficiencies made him who he was. He was rude, snarky and straight-forward, and that would have been enough for his classmates to dislike him, but when he wasn't inflicting some type of hate speech to anyone who crossed him, he was simply an arrogant, pretentious, self-centered motherfucker, and with a hovering grandmother that did everything for him possible, there was no wonder why. He had been suspended a few times for talking back to teachers or inciting fights, but following his grandmother's begging and pleading, he'd toned back completely during his junior year which had, ultimately, been the demise of his mental health. Whereas prior he had reflected his hatred onto others, by his senior year, he was boiling in self-loathing, practicing self-harm and exploding in suicidal thoughts that he imagined would have been quieted had he had anyone to talk to about how much he fucking hated everyone and everything.

"No, but I'm getting really close,' he replied with a fake smile and laugh, encouraging his aggressor to mockingly lunge at him, Michael only cutting his eyes over to the young man and continuing his walk of shame to the back of the class. The hour that was left over consisted of a fifty minute video and a questionnaire about lab safety procedures, all that everyone had learned in their first science class in sixth grade. Yawning by the end of class, Michael contemplated skipping and going to a local gas station to buy a box of cigarettes and heading to a local pond to skip some rocks and scream at the top of his lungs. It was one of those fantasies that made him giddy, but he feared that an absence from any of his classes on the first day would result in a call home, and the last thing he wanted was Constance knocking on his door and asking him if he wanted to talk. He did, but not to her.

The last busy rush of the hallways began as the bell rang, the young man finding himself, again, pushed between students and clawing to get to his fourth period class. It was an upper level English course, and the only one he'd felt anything less than animosity about attending, but that soon ended as soon as the teacher spoke.

"We're going to go around in a circle, say our first names and something interesting about ourselves."

Groans filled the classroom before students stood up one by one, fixing their hair and telling an irrelevant fact, occasionally stirring jokes from the classroom, but usually rushing to sit back down.

 _"My name is Caitlin, and I traveled to Austria this summer."_

 _"My name is Oliver, and I got in a car wreck on the way to school this morning, and my mom still made me come, so… Resilience for the win!"_

Michael's turn came towards the end of the rotation; he stood and wiped his palms off on his pants before pushing some of his hair behind his ears. "For those of you who don't know,' he started off, loud. "My name is Michael Langdon. I don't really have any interesting facts, but, I can say, doing icebreakers during your senior year of high school is bullshit, because if you don't know my name or one interesting fact about me by now, there's a chance you don't give a fuck, but that's okay, because neither do I. There's not a single person in this classroom who can say one thing to pique my interest, and the fact that some of you worthless excuses for life think that saying 'waffles are better than pancakes' is an interesting fact is beyond baffling to me and just goes to prove that the overall interesting fact for this cesspool is that neither I nor any of you are of any importance or interest to literally, and I mean literally, _anyone_."

— His hands were still damp from the pond's water, and he flicked a bit of dirt from underneath his nail as he walked into his home's threshold, Constance already sitting at the dinner table, a plume of smoke rising above her head.

"Why are you like this?' she started instantly, ashing her cigarette and looking over at her grandson with harsh eyes.

Michael furrowed his eyebrows, attempting to feign confusion, but backed up quickly when Constance stood as she was known for physical outbursts when angered.

"God damnit! I asked you, I begged you, I plead with you, Michael, and you don't listen! _Please, just be good, Michael._ _Please, don't bring attention to yourself_ \- and what do you do? How do you to repay me? You go up to that school and _show your ass._ Now you've got yourself a suspension on the first day of school. How can you be so stupid, Michael? _Don't you get it!?_ "

Frowning as he looked at the woman, he did his best to fight off the burning sensation in his eyes. She was the only person who ever rose up that type of emotion from him. For years, she had been so kind and forgiving, but as he got older, Michael could tell his actions had began to wear on her, and despite his petitions to be better and be kinder, it seemed that all his right actions were repaid with ten separate travesties.

 _"I'm sorry."_

Constance stood and stared at the young man for a few seconds, the shadow of the unlit portion of the home casting a long, dark apparition onto him. Lighting another cigarette, she shook her head and exhaled. "You're always sorry, Michael,' she said coldly before walking to the front door and exiting for a breath of fresh air. Michael placed the sealed pack of cigarettes he'd picked up from the store (following being kicked out of class and sent to the office) onto the table, hoping it would be a small peace offering and walked slowly up the stairs to his room. The room was especially bland with white walls, a few posters, black bedspread and a desk and shelf filled to the brim with books. Sitting on his bed, Michael stared at the Vitalogy poster on the ceiling above his pillows before unloading his backpack. A few writing utensils and crumbled syllabuses lay on the bed before he got to the bottom, fingering at the edge of a thick book, the pages brushing his fingers lightly. With the natural light still pouring into his room, Michael, feeling as pathetic as he would that week, opened to the first page of _How to Heal your Mind in 10 Days!_


	2. bene venisti

A three day suspension at any time during the school year could have been detrimental, but it was equally as harmful as it was surpassable when it happened so close to the year's beginning. Of course, Michael missed all the introductions and a few of the basics regarding Latin, but they hadn't been in the throws of classwork yet, so despite his late arrival, he hadn't missed much except the foundation. He imagined that he would be scraping to understand what he'd missed for the first week back to class at least which made him not want to go back at all, but his grandmother was having no conversation of the like. On Friday, his first day allowed back on campus, the air had already began to chill a small bit, a small comfort as Michael smoked a cigarette a few feet off of what was considered school property. After burning it enough for a small ember to burn the tip of his finger, he dropped the butt, ashed it underneath his left foot and turned towards the massive building, frowning at his impending doom. A classmate, one that had been in his English course that Monday, waved at him briefly, Michael returning a small, frank grin. He assumed that some kids, those that were on the outskirts of popularity would make him into an anti-hero for his outburst in class. It wasn't his intention at all, as his tirade was really just a rupture of the frustration that had been built up all day, but if people were going to think of him admirably, he enjoyed that it was for something that he'd done out of passion and raw emotion.

Introductory Latin was taught by Dr. Grant, which seemed like a blemish on anyone's career, obtaining a doctorate only to teach at the primary level. The woman had reddish, thick hair and wore glasses that predated the decade. She smiled at Michael, knowingly, as he walked into the class a few minutes before school started. She took attendance without asking anyone's names, checking off boxes as students filed in. She did, however, clear her throat for the young man, causing him to look over his shoulder, hoping there wouldn't be a conversation that involved her asserting her authority or something that he knew teachers were a fan of.

"We don't have assigned seats, Mr. Langdon. Everyone has already gone ahead and kind of claimed their spots in class though. There's a seat right over there,' she pointed to a chair behind a long black table that sat two people. "I know no one sits there, and everyone around there is very helpful or very quiet. If you want to change seats once everyone has arrived, so be it,' she ended with a polite shrug, but smiled when Michael thanked her, the latter walking over to the empty seat and pulling out the assigned book for the class.

The announcements began on the speaker system before the bell rang, as the school was obsessed with promptness, and the idea was that if the announcements played before school officially started, instruction time could be elongated. The principal's voice droned on long and monotonous as Michael watched more students file into the classroom. He sat on the right of the table that would be shared with another classmate; a young man with headphones in and a large gray hoodie sat to the left of him, but he seemed vastly uninterested in Michael let alone the entire class. He didn't say anything to Michael upon sitting down, instead turning the blaring music on his phone down a small bit and searching through the timeline of some unsaid social media. A girl with naturally curly hair and cheeks reddened with blush sat on the other side of Michael, actually, stood. She carried a binder and her Latin book close to her chest as she stood and spoke loudly over the intercom to one of their fellow classmates; she wore a v-neck, loose beige sweater tucked into a pleated, multi-colored skirt and a pair of chucks that mimicked bowling shoes over scrunched beige socks. Her hair coiled up to her collar bone, but a piece of her hair looked straightened and braided and hung over her shoulder with a colored rubber band keeping it in place. Her voice was as eccentric as her outfit, and Michael frowned as she spoke loudly to whoever her conversation was geared towards, but he didn't say anything nor would he.

Picking at his nails a few seconds later, he hadn't noticed that she was attempting to get his attention until she tapped on his shoulder, Michael shrinking back.

"Aren't you that kid that got suspended for going off in Reid's class?"

Michael hesitated, the hum of other people's voices in the class beginning to block out the principal's perpetual voice entirely. The girl hovered over him extremely close, enough that Michael could hardly differentiate if the reddening on her cheeks was blush or a light sunburn. "If that's how people are describing it."

The girl nodded, giving a small smile and backing off. "That's awesome, I could never do anything like that."

Taking the opportunity to look more impressive than he was, Michael cocked his mouth to the side and looked the girl over as she took her seat at the table beside him. Her dark brown eyes were practically unreadable behind her long eyelashes, but he could tell that she was his age or maybe a junior. She seemed much more forward and outspoken than he was, but it didn't mean she wasn't someone that could be ultimately smitten with him. She had spoken to him first. "Why not? Are you scared of getting into trouble?"

"Yes,' she responded sarcastically, "Absolutely petrified…"

Michael shrugged, "I'm not."

The girl pushed some of her thick hair behind her ear, looking at Michael again briefly before opening up her textbook. Swallowing in thought after a few seconds, she said, "I guess I'm more weary about, like, how getting suspended looks on my transcript,' she responded flatly, looking at him again with a straight face. Though the comment was sharp, she meant it in banter. "But,' she said quickly, to compensate for the growing irritation that she saw on her peer's face. "Seeing as though your inhibitions are lower than mine, I can see why you're so brave."

With flickering emotions, Michael looked over at the girl again, hoping to get out a final few words as the principal ended the morning ritual, and Dr. Grant made her way to the classroom's podium. "You think it was brave?"

She nodded with a serious countenance. "All the way."

The two, making brief eye contact, gave each other a small smile before gearing their attention to the teacher. Dr. Grant lectured for a time about the difference between active and passive voice before handing out a worksheet for the class to work on separately. She didn't take much time to reference information that she had already taught, leading Michael to stare at his worksheet, not understanding, for a few moments, before he was lead to filling in spaces with answers that he assumed could be correct, but, as it was an entirely different language, it was all Greek to him. Somewhere between frustration and irritation, as per usual, Michael was beyond relieved when the bell to go to the next class rang, and the class's teacher instructed the students to pass their worksheets to the front. He assumed he wouldn't be harshly graded as there was no way he could know the information, but, in brutal honesty, he hoped he received a poor grade, so he could find another excuse as to why he hated first period too, because stating that it started too early in the morning felt like a lousy example.

"So,' the brunette began again, reaching for Michael's attention.

Picking up his textbook and pushing his pencil behind his ear, Michael found himself surprised to hear the girl from earlier attempting to continue their conversation. He was, ultimately, flattered, but hadn't thought much about her after the minor ego boost she'd given him at the beginning of class. Seeing as though the gift might just keep giving, he waited for her to retrieve her things and walked out of the room alongside her.

"Did you understand the worksheet?' she asked sympathetically, pointing back to the classroom.

"Yes,' Michael lied, looking over the hallway and students with anguish. "It's not difficult."

The girl nodded and sighed, temporarily at a loss for words. "I was going to say if you ever needed help you could just ask me, but, clearly, you've got it,' she laughed.

Drawing out a deep hum, Michael said, "If I ever need any assistance, I'll let you know."

Slightly thrown by the boy's sudden dryness, she smiled and locked eyes with the cafeteria as they passed it. Had the conversation been going any better or anywhere, she would have found an excuse to keep it going, but seeing as though she had first lunch, and the young man seemed burdened by her commentary, she gave him a short goodbye and walked towards the cafeteria. Before she could push through the large doors, her close friend, Paige, stopped her by grabbing her arm.

"Hey,' she said quickly, locking eyes with Paige as the two traveled through the door together.

"Who were you talking to?' Paige asked, removing a piece of gum from her mouth and throwing it into a nearby trash can.

"Someone from my Latin class… he's kinda cute,' she responded, offering the last bit as a suggestion rather than a statement.

Paige stared at her friend momentarily before shaking her head and getting in the lunch line, a few people shoving behind them in a rush to get to the same pizza they ate every Friday. "Only if you like guys who look like potential serial killers."

"Well, that's my type."

Paige rolled her eyes and continued down the line, "Are you going to Film App club this afternoon?"

Film App was a shortened version of Film Appreciation Club which consisted of a mixture of award-winning films and independent films viewed by a few students who cared enough to make commentary about them, relate themes from film to film or make connections between directorial work. They met Friday afternoons and occasionally went to one of the group member's homes afterwards for a movie night that usually consisted of a movie, a game of truth or dare and anything but pizza.

"I am the president, so… _maybe_?' she responded sarcastically, watching a giant slice of stale pizza be slapped onto her tray which she returned with a gentle smile.

"How about you invite your new friend? We can watch _Zodiac_ or something, I'm sure he'll like that,' Paige responded with a snide chuckle.

"You're such a bitch, Paige,' she responded. Still smiling, she wondered _if_ he would like that movie or if he would prefer something else… perhaps he liked the classics, much like herself. Who didn't like _Gone with the Wind_? Who didn't like _Rosemary's Baby_? The movie had originally frightened her, and she usually shied away from making the entire club view scary films. She knew that the concept of there being a child whose father was the devil was off-putting, even scary, but it wasn't realistic. For a movie to be truly horrifying, there had to be the knowledge that the film's events could happen in real life, and seeing as though Rosemary's Baby wasn't based on true events, there was, seemingly, no reason to be afraid of it. It was her favorite horror movie and thus her decision for that night's viewing. She knew there was no chance that the boy from Latin would be there or that she'd get the opportunity to invite him, but it was fun enough to speculate about the interests and dislikes of someone she didn't know.

"You think he'd like _Rosemary's Baby_?"


	3. meet temperance

A tambourine banging loud in Temperance's ear was enough to bring her away from focusing on her hymnal and gear her attention towards her younger sister. Fern banged on the instrument opposite the beat, and though it was only a worship rehearsal, Temperance found her irritation rising in what she assumed was her sister's humor. As the song ended, and the small congregation was prompted to take a short break, Temperance closed the hardcover book and placed it in her pew before snatching the tambourine from Fern.

" _Hey_!' her younger sister interjected loudly as most of the auditorium cleared out in favor of the lobby. The two girls sat in the low ceiling sanctuary, the dim light playing on their full cheeks.

"Can you be anymore irritating and disrespectful?"

"I can definitely try,' Fern replied, reaching across Temperance to try to retrieve the tambourine again. The latter pushed it further from both of them and crossed her legs so that her sister couldn't stand to retrieve it.

"Why are you so serious? It's not even actual church service."

Temperance massaged her temples, "It's still the house of God, it's still holy, and it's still rude of you to bang it off beat while other people are worshiping. I know you don't believe it, but not everyone has to fake their faith,' she said with an eye roll.

"I'm not faking anything,' Fern said defensively. "I believe in God; all I said was that there were inaccuracies in the Bible."

"I'm glad your freshman philosophy class taught you that already, how do you like Nietzsche?"

" _Who_?"

"That's what I thought,' Temperance replied again, handing the tambourine back over to Fern to avoid further argument with the girl. They were only two and a half years apart, but they differed greatly. While Temperance found herself usually going with the grain, Fern was as edgy as it came. As for their conservative, white-collar, religious parents, Fern's taste for loud music, reality television and passive agnosticism was enough to throw them both into continued prayer and stricter rules for both their daughters to follow. Temperance had always been the better behaved of the children and the least likely to ask questions or start trouble, which was a grim fact for Fern to live with as she much preferred to start confusion and bask in instigation. They weren't especially close nor were they rivals. Temperance dropped Fern off where she needed to go and occasionally they shared clothes, but their similarities were minor.

As for their parents, their father was a professor of theology, and their mother was a lobbyist. Not only were the children constantly involved in religious conversations, they were the victims of political tirades, and though this did little to aid their ease in avoiding touchy subjects, it did make them culturally aware. They were practicing Presbyterians, but Temperance had enough books about the Eastern Orthodox Church to fill a small library and her copy of the Catechism of the Catholic Church was worn and heavily annotated.

The rest of the practice dragged on with both Fern and Temperance yawning by the closing prayer. Neither girls were excellent singers, but their mother insisted that they be involved in their church somehow, which had landed the girls in the choir and at practice every Saturday night until 9 P.M. Fern was, according to their parents, too young to be worried about missing any social events on the weekend, and Temperance imagined they either didn't care about her social life or assumed she didn't have one. It was true that her circle of friends was small, pretty much limited to the Film App Club, and her parents' weekly allowance guaranteed that she wouldn't have to work throughout high school, but the solidification of mandated church attendance on Saturday nights was enough to burden the soul of any teenager, and Temperance silently prayed that something would happen to make her life just a small bit more enjoyable.

Of all the books she read and movies she watched, the only thing that ever felt surreal was when hours of escapism had paid off, and she could convince herself that she was no longer Temperance Caldwell, but, instead, another character in another timeline leading another life. Not that Temperance was bad or ugly or unlikable, in fact, she was the opposite of all those things. Temperance was, _however_ , as boring as it got, and the most interesting thing about her Saturday's was constantly reprimanding her sister about some new wrong. She did her best to accentuate her personality through bright clothing and inspirational posts on social media, but there was only so much construction of reality that she could imitate. She wouldn't say she was sad or depressed or even unhappy, but she was completely willing for something new to happen in her life, and was, for the first time, willing to take the path less taken to get there.

Temperance and Fern drove back home together, stopping at a drive-thru window near their neighborhood.

"I'm vegan now,' Fern mused from the passenger seat, leaning over Temperance to take full view of the menu.

"Shut the hell up,' Temperance responded, rolling her eyes and pushing her sister back to the passenger side. The two ordered a bacon cheeseburger, a buffalo chicken sandwich, four orders of Cajun fries, a sweet tea and lemonade. Fern insisted it would be one of her cheat days.

Pulling her yellow Beetle up to her house's driveway, Temperance rolled down her car's windows, leaned her chair back and opened the paper bag, retrieving her sandwich and one order of the fries. Fern did the same as the two ate, the distant sound of cars in the background.

"You don't even realize how much garbage we put into our bodies when we eat stuff, like, cow and pig."

Temperance took another bite of her cheeseburger, "I guess you did right and got chicken then."

"Chicken isn't great either, but it's the lesser of evils."

Looking at Fern out of the corner of her eye, Temperance gave a small chuckle. "What made you go vegan?"

"Honestly,' Fern swallowed hard, taking a sip of lemonade afterwards. "There's this hot guy in my botany class, like, serious hippie vibes. I haven't talked to him yet, but he, like, totally, loves the earth. There's no way he's sitting at home eating a steak right now."

"I bet that's exactly what he's doing."

Sitting silently for a second, Fern nodded after a while. "You're probably right. He's probably using A-1 sauce too."

Temperance faux gagged, " _Fucking disgusting_."

Fern laughed alongside her sister, finishing the last bite of her sandwich before digging in the bag for a fist full of fries. "How's your love life, Temp? I haven't seen you post anything depressing on Snapchat lately."

"Oh, I just have you blocked,' Temperance replied sarcastically, Fern giving her a fake smile.

"Nothing really...' Temperance thought for a few seconds, thought back to the previous week. "Paul asked me to go out with him one day this month, he keeps saying whenever he doesn't have wrestling practice... Other than that, there's this cute guy in my Latin class. Don't think he's that interested in me."

Fern picked at her teeth between words, "I'm a fan of you being with anyone who isn't Paul. I'm so sick of him."

Paul Lauder was an ex-boyfriend of Temperance's, one that had famously pressured her out of her virginity. Despite being viewed as the resident antagonist by the Caldwell household, he was a state championship winner in wrestling, handsome and very popular. Their relationship was tumultuous, as Paul, for lack of better words, was a douche bag of immaculate proportions, and though his hate speech was rarely geared towards Temperance, she couldn't bare to be in a relationship with someone who treated others so poorly. Of their five break-ups, Temperance had initiated all of them, and had been wrapped back in by Paul's promises to do better and Temperance's dissatisfaction with being alone. Part of the reason she'd started Film Appreciation Club was to assuage her loneliness, and even after her and Paul had gotten back together for the third time, it filled out some of the dependency she had previously relied on him to fill. As far as the beginning of her junior year, she was single, and not necessarily unhappy with it, but in desperate need for a change. She imagined that Paul would only present the same character he had been for the past two years, but, something was better than nothing.

Throwing her wrapper back into the bag, Temperance shrugged. "That's fair."

The two sat together in the vehicle for a few more minutes, discussing miscellaneous topics before both departing to their house and their own separate rooms. Temperance's bed room was decorated in white and beige shades, her comforter a heavy, patterned quilt. There were a few pops of color, such as the reddish vase on her vanity and the painted height chart beside her door. The room was nearly spotless, asides from a few strewn clothes beside her bathroom door that could be quickly cleaned up. Sitting on the side of her bed, Temperance's toes wrapped around the thick fur of her shaggy rug as she released her hair from its dark scrunchie. The thick mess of curls quickly returned to their natural volume. She ran a hand over her tired face, the lamp in her room burning her eyes a bit as they adjusted back to light.

Looking over her shoulder at the antique clock mounted on her wall, she counted down the hours that she would, again, have to enter back into the house of the Lord. She only got to sleep in on Saturday's, but it seemed Fern was always somewhere in the house, listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers at full volume, thus making sleep a desire rather than anything obtainable. Biting at her thumb, Temperance checked her phone one final time, unsurprised by the lack of notifications. She placed it on its charger and changed into her nightwear before taking a gaze out her window, lingering upon a lone child, riding his bike down the road with no visible adult watching him. Her fingers played tenaciously on her wooden blinds as she stood between the white, sheath curtains in her own white, thin night gown. If looking too quickly, she appeared as an apparition. Temperance, as if an unspoken guardian, watched the boy ride from the top of her street to the end, holding her breath as he wobbled on the red bicycle, continuously hoping that a parent or a friend would be following close behind. She hadn't seen the young, blond boy before, but he road the street as though he was confident in where he was going. Temperance's brown eyes followed her slow-moving fixation, the boy disappearing into the unlit portion of the street after a minute or two. She stood at the window for a few more moments, hoping that he'd reappear or that something or someone would follow in his stead to reassure her of his safety. When he didn't reappear and no one followed him into the abyss, as she saw it, Temperance closed her blinds tightly and dropped her curtains, returning to her bed and pulling her covers up to her chin.

She was glad that she was safe and loved, glad that she would never find herself alone with no one to be curious of her whereabouts. She wondered about the boy, if he had found his way home or why he was out by himself in the first place. Temperance bit at her thumb again, a shiver of light from the street pouring into her room in a straight line. If she was braver, she would have gone out to the street to look for him, but she wasn't brave, the air was cold, and too much time had passed since she'd seen him disappear into the night.

If something bad had fallen upon him, she was too late.


	4. salve

Walking under the threshold of Dr. Grant's class Monday morning, Temperance immediately made eye contact with the blond haired boy from Friday's lesson and gave him a soft smile. He stared at her as she walked to her seat, never flitting his gaze from her and offering no curvature of his lips.

"Are you usually this effervescent so early in the morning?' Michael asked, still watching the girl as she sat down in her chair and turned her attention towards him.

"There's nothing to be sinister about yet,' Temperance said, holding onto her words as she unpacked her book bag. "You can trick your brain into thinking that things are brighter than they are."

He squinted his eyes momentarily, "How so?"

Shifting her lips to one side of her jaw as she thought, Temperance tapped her fingers on her desk, seeking the answer for the young man's question. "I guess it's, like, if you keep reminding yourself that you have something special in store later in the day. That special thing can be imaginary, but each time you think about it, just change your thoughts. By the end of the day, you're struggling to remember exactly what you have in store for that afternoon or that night, but you've had the concept on repeat for so long that you're convinced something good will occur. Your entire day is, kind of, uplifted with the hopes that something better is in store. By the time you can actually think about it, you're not necessarily disappointed by the fact that it was all a farce made to occupy your brain, because you're finally in a position where you can relax and settle down,' Temperance shrugged again and bit her lower lip. "That's one that I try a lot, but there are others."

Thinking back to the copy of _How to Heal your Mind in 10 Days!_ , Michael recalled chapter three which introduced a type of self-hypnosis. The book insisted that if you wanted to be better, you could be better. If you wanted to be brave, all you had to do was tell yourself that you were brave. His classmate seemed to be walking proof that self-help books could be used in real-life application, she seemed to be happy enough.

"Does that work for you?' he asked curiously, sitting up in his seat.

She hummed a bit, looking up at the ceiling for an answer. "It's hard to fight against your inner thoughts, you know,' she responded, grinding her teeth a bit. "Sometimes that feeling of future surprise starts to feel more like terror, like, I have this apprehension about what my day is gearing towards. I've tried that exercise, or however you'd call it, before and almost had an anxiety attack. It's hard to trick your brain, we're not animals,' Temperance locked eyes with Michael. After a few seconds, he nodded, fully understanding what she meant and sat back in the chair. The daily announcements began, and Dr. Grant made her way to the center stage, as she did and would everyday.

For the following week, Temperance made it a point to get to class about ten minutes before the announcements were due to start in order to talk to the boy, whose name she, somehow, still didn't know. Any efforts she put forth into talking to him following class were usually shrugged off, as, by that time, he seemed entirely consumed with just getting through the rest of the day rather than engaging in any small talk. Temperance did, however, manage to usually get a few good responses out of him, no matter how early in the morning. Something about him was entirely different than anyone else she interacted with; he was wise in a quiet way and every word he said held validity. He didn't say much or talk for long, but when he spoke, it was always about something important, and when he listened, she could tell that he cared about her responses as he usually asked follow-up questions. He talked about things like psychology and literature, and though his tone was usually sardonic, she couldn't say he wasn't open-minded. He gave just enough to gather her interest, but not enough to make her think he was interested.

Nevertheless, Temperance was a fan of his presence and was remarkably saddened to find that Friday when she entered the classroom his seat was empty. Waiting a few minutes, she watched the door, hoping he'd file in and they'd share their daily chat, but the principal's voice crackled over the sound system, and Dr. Grant began her lesson without the young man making any entrance. He did, however, walk in around thirty minutes late, his backpack slung on only one shoulder, his jaw clenched and his fingers wrapped tightly around a yellow sheet of paper. He didn't make any noise as he sat down, though his entrance disrupted Dr. Grant's train of thought momentarily. Temperance watched him move down the walkway of the room's desks, hoping he'd give her at least a small smirk of acknowledgement, but his eyes only bore holes into the floor as he moved beside her.

It was a few minutes later that she saw a folded sheet of lined paper out of the corner of her eye, long fingers sliding a note onto her desk. Looking over at the boy for a second, Temperance slid the paper closer to her, unfolding it and reading its contents.

 _'Salve... hate to miss our daily talk. The fuck-up we call principal pulled me to the office for smoking a stog and gave me a detention she and I both know I'm not going to. I hope you didn't have anything important to tell me'_

Smiling to herself, Temperance pulled a purple pen, to contrast the heavy, gray lead on the paper. Writing in loose cursive, she penned back:

 _'Salve! Nothing important, but I did miss the talk. Is it fair if I say it's practically the only thing that keeps me sane throughout the day? A minor deterrence from typical teenage bullshit.'_

Passing the letter back to the corner of her desk, she watched the young man pick it up from the corner, read its contents and offer a small chuckle. She smiled to herself again, impressed that she'd risen a laugh out of him, a rarity.

 _'You're speaking my language. I can tell you're different from everyone else. Too bad you let yourself become a carbon copy... do you understand what she's talking about right now?'_

Reading the note as it slid back on her desk, Temperance felt a bit of annoyance at its content, but overall curiosity. She was flattered initially, but at the mention of 'carbon copy', she had a sudden desire to be delivered a full-length dissertation on how exactly she was the same as everyone else. Rolling her eyes, she wrote back a dry response in standard print.

 _'Yes, I thought you said Latin was easy for you.'_

 _'Don't believe a thing I say, baby.'_

Michael looked back at the note for a second, wondering if the term of endearment was well placed. He was a fan of flirting and banter, but never had anyone to truly enact it with, not to say he hadn't been the benefactor of a few crushes prior, but he demanded a certain physical attraction in order to go forth with any type of flirtations. He, as an outsider, attracted other outsiders, and he didn't know how many greasy-faced, fat theater girls he had to tell to fuck off to get the point across that though he was categorized with them, he wasn't one of them. As for the girl from Latin, which he had quipped her, she was conveniently pretty and extremely intelligent. Her only true affliction was that she had a big, fat crush on him, and he could feel it every time she entered into the room. With that knowledge, he kept ' _baby_ ' on the note and slid it back onto her desk.

Eyeing the note, Temperance's heart dropped in her chest. She looked over at the boy, but he didn't make any effort to meet her eye, causing Temperance to smile again, finally able to diagnose what she hadn't before. As high school students usually did, she returned the gesture and wrote back with just as much spontaneity.

" _Baby?_ ' she began, writing in cursive once more. _"I like. Too bad it's only a placeholder because you don't know my actual name."_

Taking the paper back, Michael smiled again, she was _very_ smart.

 _"Then what is it?"_

Looking up at the clock briefly, Temperance saw that only a few minutes in class remained which was then made evident by the noise of students backing up prior to the teacher releasing them. Opening the note, she spelled her first and last name out legibly.

' _What's yours_?' the bottom of the note read with little to no space for the boy to write any answer. She pushed the paper back onto his desk, not bothering to watch him read it, instead closing her textbook and placing her writing utensils back into her pencil pouch. The bell rang above them, Temperance standing from her chair and almost immediately running into her pen pal's chest. He was, probably, five or six inches taller than her, causing her to tilt her head up in an effort to apologize, but quickly becoming locked in his blue eyes.

Her mouth, opened to offer an apology, remained cocked open as no sound released, Temperance, instead, caught in a short-lived trance as she felt the young man's hand drop from the small of her back, his firm grasp, presumably, being what stopped her from falling or dropping her books.

Everyone around the two moved on to their next class, the noise in the room rose loudly, and the earth continued its spin, while they both seemed locked, if only temporarily, in time.

"Michael."


	5. serve the servants

**tw: self harm**

Pulling his curtain closed, Michael walked around on the cold wood of his floor, humming the tune to his recently discovered album, In Utero. He was well aware that the album was older, and by the amount of Nirvana shirts he saw around school, he knew the band was popular, however, Constance kept a tight rope on Michael and the media that he consumed. Aside from the fact that he wasn't allowed to have a cell phone, there were no televisions in the home and the only time he could get internet access was while at school or the local library. Michael listened to the radio and began frequenting a music store in the city upon discovering his new interest. One of the first songs he'd heard on the radio, _Even Flow_ , or so he thought it was named as those words were repeated throughout the chorus, stuck out to him promptly. When the velvet and thick voice of the singer belted out _dark grin, he can't help, when he's happy looks insane_ , it seemed as though the lyrics were meant for him. The rest of the song, too, mirrored Michael, or he mirrored it, and he found himself turning to the same radio station daily in an effort to hear the same song over. Though he wasn't sure of the band's name and was much too prideful to present the lyrics to the music store clerk, afraid that the song wasn't popular and he wouldn't know it or afraid that the song was very popular and the clerk would look down on him, Michael, instead asked the long haired, acne-ridden clerk which album he would suggest for vinyl. There was minimal technology in the Langdon household, thus Michael resorted to pulling an old record player from the dining room up into his bedroom, where he'd play a few of the classics on repeat, owning no recordings of his own. With the addition of an outside source of music from his car's radio, Michael realized that orchestral music wasn't doing for him what the loud bass of nineties tear-jerk music could. The clerk, kindly, pointed to an LP of In Utero, covered in plastic and sitting between a vinyl of Ten and OK Computer. Clutching the album to his chest, Michael forked over the money, which he has borrowed from his grandmother, and left the store, almost running to his car in order to play the album.

He felt best in his room with a long sweater on and long pants, as the house was almost always freezing cold. No matter what the temperature in the house lay at, Michael remained barefoot, his feet on the wooden floor or any carpeted mat, seemingly, keeping him grounded. As lyrics from the record pulsated through the room, Michael peered out of the window. As the sun sat, a light orange hue cast into the room and played upon Michael's face, his mop of hair glowing light blonde in the haze. Thinking, as he bit at his thumb, Michael remembered the conversation he'd engaged in with the record store's clerk as he left.

 _"A few of the records look a bit demonic,' Michael said, gazing at hung vinyls behind the clerk's head. He chuckled a bit at the statement but sought an earnest response._

 _"Demonic like satanic?"_

 _"Is there more than one meaning of the word,' he retorted back, a bit of irritation howling out in the question._

 _"You could've been talking about satanism or literal satan for all I know. I'm pretty sure there's a cd in here somewhere with a sermon from that guy who led the satanic church, you know?"_

 _Furrowing his eyebrows, Michael questioned further, his interest being thoroughly piqued. He didn't know, but he wanted to find out more. "Yeah,' he lied. "I can hardly tell what the difference between all that… shit is anymore."_

 _The clerk looked up from keying in Michael's price, realizing the young man wanted some insight into the dark lore. He imbibed, though he, admittedly, didn't know much about either subject himself. "I'm pretty sure satanism is just a lousy nomenclature for hedonism, living life to the fullest. Those guys don't actually worship satan. They use him as a figurehead."_

 _"Why?"_

 _"The devil just,' the clerk shrugged. "Represents all things sinful, and what's more sinful than doing what you want instead of what God wants?"_

 _Nodding, Michael looked around the store some more, surprised that he and the clerk were the only two present. "And what about people who actually worship satan? What do they call themselves?"_

 _The clerk looked up, grinding his teeth a bit. "Lunatics."_

Closing the blinds tightly, Michael walked over to his room's door to lock it. Constance had a bad reputation for bursting into his room without knocking, and he suspected that the night would take a darker turn. The music emulated a feeling in him that he had not yet been able to put a finger on or define, but he did feel the perpetual, low-level depression from simply existing. He saw himself as a nuisance to almost everything and everyone, and the only person he had ever truly attempted to impress, his grandmother, seemed to be in a constant dance of hatred and disappoint geared towards him. Michael definitely wasn't happy, not even close, but he knew that was normal. He'd read enough pamphlets, heard enough seminars about self-harm and suicide levels in teens and sat in too many therapy sessions to think he was the only person in the world who hated every inch of themselves.

He was too tall for his body and too light for his size, his voice was feeble, and it was difficult for him to make commands or sound commandeering. No matter how many haircuts he got, he always looked somewhere between a Catholic schoolboy and a vagrant. He was smart, but not smarter than anyone else could be if they applied themselves and not smart enough to gain anyone's attention for his intelligence. No matter how many times he reasserted his need for respect, someone louder and bigger came and took it away from him. The worst part of it all was that in the mix of attempting to show everyone his good qualities, he had reveled in and multiplied his negative characteristics. Michael had never been a great person, he knew that, he'd never been naturally altruistic or a peacemaker; even as a boy, he found ways to start mischief, but he'd tried to change over a hundred times. It seemed as though each time he did something right and pleaded for someone's attention, they ignored it. How else could he be noticed? Each time he acted out or made a scene, someone paid attention. He tried hard to be the bigger person and do the right thing. It wasn't what came to him instinctively, but it was what he wanted.

 _I'm not like them, but I can pretend_

Music still playing loudly in the background, Michael slid into the warm water of his tub, eyeing a faint ring he'd missed the last time he'd cleaned it out. He had to clean it frequently in order to prevent staining from his blood, but, mainly, to avoid having to hear about it from Constance. He didn't know whether she'd be more upset about him ruining his body or him ruining her bathtub. Sighing, he plunged under the water for a few seconds, easing his pale knees further up and drenching his hair. As he came up, his bangs covered his eyebrows and dripped down onto his chest, decreasing his temperature as his face made contact with the house's cool air once more. He didn't cut himself or punch himself or burn himself or scratch himself for the attention, he didn't want anyone to know that he wasn't normal. Seeing the blood pour from his skin or the brown and blue emerge on his complexion was one of the only ways Michael could remind himself that he was alive and human. Occasionally he felt so detached from the world, that he fully expected to cut into his wrist and see wires or advanced mechanism. He never did, however, which gave rise to the question: what did other people consist of it? It couldn't be the same blood and matter that he was. As badly as he wished to relate to and understand those he came into contact with, everyone else seemed to speak a language that Michael could hear and speak but could never fully understand.

He fumbled the blade, dropping it into the water and cutting his fingers open in a matter of seconds. Wincing in pain, he retrieved the blade with his other hand and placed the injured hand into the water, the warmth of the bath giving a soothing touch to the throbbing in his hand. Michael sat for a few seconds, his mouth held in a frustrated position as he watched the blood seep from his fingers. He thought about how he'd be unable to hold a pencil for the next few days, and, for a moment, considered putting the blade to his throat to avoid the discomfort he'd have to deal with while writing daily writing prompts in English. It had gotten to that point for him, where every discomfort seemed to be more difficult than death. He thought about satanism and hedonism and harems and drinking and being merry and wondered if that would make him happy.

Making an incision in his left hip, Michael watched as the blood clouded his clarity through the water, but he'd cut around that area so many times that he couldn't feel the metal piercing his skin. Making a few more minor cuts, Michael placed the blade back down on the edge of the tub, dripping reddened bath water onto the white of the bathroom. Sighing, he laid his head back on the wall, watching his feet as he cracked his bones. The room was silent after the record stopped, the only noise coming from the faucet which dripped every few seconds. Half of the tub was a a faint shade of red which faded out into the clear water still at the end of the tub.

He thought about the first time he'd cut himself, prior to knowing about self-harm and body mutilation. Michael remembered feeling as though injuring himself was the only way he could prevent injuring others. Every time he was upset or angry with a classmate, he'd find himself locked in a stall for a time, punching himself in the face or in the arms or in the legs. He never reaped full satisfaction from it, but it gave him some ease. It also ended with minor consequences, Michael didn't mind the pain, and it was better than having to answer for attacking someone. All the cuts on his body were living testaments to the injustices he had faced from others, the hatred he inflicted on himself and the perpetual need he had for a reminder that he was alive, and if not well, then just.

Standing from the tub a few seconds later, Michael pulled the drain before turning on the shower head to remove the memory of blood from his skin and from the bathtub. He looked at himself in the mirror afterwards, hollow cheeks and full lips behind his drying curly hair. Pushing his locks behind his ears, he looked himself over in the mirror, giving a small, pathetic smile at his reflection before turning off the light and entering his bedroom. Pulling on a short sleeve black shirt and pajama pants, Michael restarted the record, his toes doing their best to grip the wood of the floor to ease the pain of the elastic from his pants digging into the raw cuts of his hip.

A raggedy voice ripped into the silence, Michael overlooking the last dying gleams of dusk.

 _Teenage angst has paid off well_


End file.
